The Floodgate

by Elaine Cunningham

Andris unbuckled his sword belt and hung it on a tree limb. He stripped off his tunic and trews, leaving only his linen undergarment. He would fight better in water if he were completely naked, but given the Crinti attitude toward males, he saw little wisdom in presenting them with a convenient and obvious target.

  He waded into the stream, armed with his jordaini daggers. One of the Crinti took note of him and elbowed a sister warrior, a well-fleshed woman who was by far the biggest of the lot. This woman snorted and called out an incomprehensible but clearly derisive comment.

  Andris decided she would provide as good an example as any.

  When he was yet a few paces away, he took a deep breath and dived toward the big Crinti and her sparring partner. His translucent form all but disappeared. The water began to roil frantically as the two women stabbed at their unseen foe. He held back out of reach until the right moment, then seized the gray hands that drove a sword into the water. He worked with the Crinti’s movement, adding his strength to push the blade deep into the stream bed. The extra “help” threw the elf off balance. Andris kicked out hard, catching her leg just above the knee. He burst out of the water, dancing away in time to see the woman flop facedown into the water, her ample, leather-clad rump followed by her flailing boots.

  “A breaching whale,” Andris mocked. He turned to the downed woman’s companion, who held her sword above the water in lunge position. “Next, I suppose, comes the narwhal.”

  The Crinti woman came on hard but did not anticipate the full impact of the water’s resistance. Andris ducked under the water. He caught the woman by her hips, just under her center of balance, and pushed up hard as he rose. The precisely timed movement sent the Crinti into brief and impromptu flight. She splashed down and skimmed the water, like a leaping swordfish.

  Andris spoke into ominous silence. “The whale and the narwhal are creatures I know. For the wise warrior, knowing comes before fighting.”

  The light broke over the big Crinti’s wet, gray face. “You know the creatures of this water world?”

  Andris gave a succinct description of the mantinarg, the creature whose skull Shanair had displayed with such pride.

  The big Crinti nodded. “Yes, that is the beast we fought Tell us of others.”

  The warriors gathered around as Andris told them what he knew. He started with tritons, powerful blue-skinned warriors with fins for feet. The Crinti scoffed at the idea of fighting against tridents, equating these pronged weapons with the pitiful defense mounted by human farmers. Andris fashioned a crude trident from a tree limb to prove them wrong. After he dropped three Crinti on their muscled backsides, the others were willing to take him seriously.

  Andris slipped once again into the role of battle leader—showing the Crinti new attacks, offering suggestions to pairs of sparring warriors, keenly observing the strengths and limitations of his troops and building a battle strategy. After the intense inner conflict of the past few days, it was an enormous relief to be engaged in something he understood.

  From a distance, Kiva watched with an approving smile. Andris, like the laraken, was proving useful beyond his original purpose. His elf heritage had nearly killed him in Akhlaur’s swamp, yet it had welded him to her cause. He obviously struggled with the grim realities of his chosen path, but he would not turn back. Andris was hers. She had read this knowledge in his eyes when he realized his kinship to the Mhair elves.

  The power of kinship was strong, even in the humans. Family was destiny—Kiva believed this to the depths of her soul. Perhaps that was why she stumbled over the three direct descendants of Akhlaur and his conspirators at nearly every turn. Perhaps they, too, had a destiny.

  The globe in Kiva’s lap began to glow. Puzzled, she placed one hand on the cool moonstone. The magic that hummed from the globe was Zephyr’s signature enchantment familiar, but subtly changed.

  She carefully opened the magical pathway. A face appeared in the globe—a misty face, gray as a Crinti’s and without form or feature. The wizard could have been old or young, male or female, elf or orc. But Kiva had spent long years collecting scrying devices and researching their properties. She cast a counterspell and watched as the mist peeled back to discern the true form of her “visitor.” Reflected in the glove was the face of a human male with sharp black eyes and a scimitar nose.

  Her throat tightened with dread as she recognized Procopio Septus, the wizard who had employed Zephyr. If the man knew enough to bring him here, she had better take the full measure of his knowledge.

  She greeted him by name.

  The wizard blinked, momentarily nonplused. He promptly returned the courtesy, even giving Kiva her lost title of inquisatrix, and then started in with the usual string of meaningless formalities that Halruaans thought necessary to every occasion.

  Kiva sharply cuffed the globe, startling the wizard into silence. “State your purpose.”

  “Perhaps I simply wish to gloat,” Procopio’s image suggested “You took Zephyr from me, but I managed to recover another misplaced jordain. You recall Iago, my master of horse? He is quite the hero after the battle of Akhlaur’s Swamp. His fame adds luster to my household. So perhaps I also wish to thank you.”

  Perhaps, Kiva noted grimly, the wizard was a flatulent bag of wind. She responded with an innocuous remark. “Iago is an able man.”

  “Very able,” Procopio agreed. “He is an excellent tracker and possesses a fine memory. The maps he has made of his travels are quite remarkable. He was riding the Nath when the Crinti raiders took him. Terrible experience, I would imagine. I hear that few sounds can curdle the blood like a Crinti battle yell.” He tipped his head to one side, as if he were listening to the shouts and curses coming from the nearby stream.

  Not a bag of wind, Kiva realized, but a dangerous man. Nevertheless, she would not be toyed with in such fashion. “What do you want?” she demanded bluntly.

  The wizard smiled. “Tell me, Inquisatrix, what news of the far northlands?”

  “What makes you think I would know?”

  Procopio’s white brows rose. “I am willing to share information, even if you are not. I recently had a visit from Matteo. He is looking for you.”

  “How frightening,” Kiva observed blandly. “Perhaps later today, I’ll faint.”

  “He is a persistent young man,” Procopio continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “He is trying to persuade Queen Beatrix to request Iago’s hire. Since Zalathorm’s moon-mad queen has no more use for another jordain than a cat has for a second tail, we can assume that Matteo has a task in mind for my jordain—and for his maps and memories.”

  “You seem to have trouble keeping your counselors,” Kiva observed coolly, giving away nothing of the unease building within.

  “Indeed. You have been raiding my henhouse quite regularly, Kiva. I would like to know why.”

  “I am a wizard,” she reminded him. “I would not be the first wizard to find a use for magic-resistant servants.”

  “If you’re thinking to use Matteo, perhaps you should reconsider. I never found him a particularly docile tool.”

  “Neither is his father, but I find him useful all the same.”

  A silence fell as Procopio considered this truth disguised as falsehood. The jordaini were the offspring of wizards, and no Halruaan would believe that any of their wizards could be subject to an elf woman. “On whose behalf do you act?” asked Procopio, predictably enough.

  Kiva laughed scornfully. “No wizard holds my leash. I command myself.”

  To her surprise, relief flickered in Procopio’s eyes—not the patronizing incredulity that she anticipated.

  “How much can you expect to gain from any wizard weak enough to yield to your control? A partnership between near equals, however, could be of great benefit to both.”

  “What could you possibly give me?” Her tone was scornful but not so scathing that it couldn’t be interpreted as genuine inquiry.

  Procopio caught the nuance. “A spell that would enab
le you to scry the lands beyond the eastern outposts.”

  “Such riches,” she scoffed. “I have such spells. What wizard does not?”

  “Use them, and tell me what you see.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she did as Procopio suggested. Instantly the scene in the globe changed, showing in detailed miniature the sweeping mountains to the east and the livid sunset colors gathering over the vast and empty plains of Dambrath.

  Kiva dismissed the image with an impatient flick of her fingers and glared into Procopio’s smug face. “I see nothing.”

  “Which is what every other wizard in Halruaa sees. Look deeper, and not with magic. We will speak again.”

  The wizard’s visage disappeared from the globe. Puzzled, Kiva called over Shanair and asked what the Crinti knew about Halruaa’s eastern frontier.

  “Warriors come,” she said with satisfaction. “Mulhorandi foot soldiers, cavalry, and wizards, marching toward Halruaa. A good army, even if they are males.”

  Kiva hissed with rage. This she had not expected! Not that she was averse to bringing another weapon against Halruaa, but only if it was part of a coordinated attack!

  “These humans march over Dambrath lands. Why have your people not stopped them?”

  Shanair looked astonished. “We believed it part of your invasion. If it were not, would we let their feet soil our land?” Suddenly she spat and then swore. “By the legs of Lolth! We kept our weapons dry for no reason?”

  “They will soon be wet with Halruaan blood,” Kiva assured her.

  Too soon, the elf woman added grimly. The battle was approaching, spurred by events she did not control. She saw little choice but to work with Procopio Septus. Later, he would pay for forcing her to act before a time of her choosing. A pivotal part of her plan was not yet in place. Before the battle could begin, she had to return to Akhlaur.

  Not just to the swamp but to Akhlaur himself.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Tzigone took a slow sip of the wine Matteo had chosen. It was marvelous—the best she had ever tasted, bought, or stolen. Who would have thought the man had taste?

  In fact, everything about this lovely inn spoke of taste, elegance, and privilege. The tables were draped with white damask. Flowers graced each place setting. The dishes matched. The servants were polite, and they didn’t count the silverware after they removed each course. Any one of these things would have constituted a new level of luxury and respect Put together, this meal was a treat Tzigone would remember with pleasure for a very long time.

  More importantly, it was the first time Matteo had actually sought her out. Usually their meetings were irregular and entirely at her instigation—more of a friendly ambush, really, than a meeting. Her pleasure at this invitation was so great that it could not be marred by the sidelong glances and whispered gossip their presence elicited. In well-mannered Halarahh—or anywhere else in Halruaa, for that matter—jordaini simply did not consort with apprentice wizards.

  For once, Matteo did not seem concerned with such niceties. As he spoke his mind, her bright mood dimmed, but she heard him out without interrupting, cursing, or dumping the kumquat trifle on his head—though she dearly wished to do all of these things.

  “I don’t know about this,” Tzigone said dubiously when at last he paused for breath.

  Matteo leaned forward. “Dhamari Exchelsor made a generous offer, one that could change your life—one that could save your life. You should at least consider it.”

  The girl shrugged. “I’ll think about it. Did you get any information for yourself?”

  For a moment he looked startled. “Oh. You mean information about Kiva.”

  Tzigone cast her eyes skyward and moved the wine decanter closer to her side of the table. “Obviously you’ve had enough of this. Remember Kiva? Yellow eyes, green hair, black heart?”

  “It seems there is little to be learned in all this city,” he said with deep frustration. “The Temple of Azuth refuses to deal with me. Zephyr and Cassia are dead. I’ve sought out the few elves in the city, but none have knowledge of or dealings with Kiva.”

  “Maybe you’re just asking the wrong questions.” Tzigone tipped the decanter into her glass. A single golden drop fell. With a sigh of resignation, she reached for her table knife and tucked it back into her belt, leaving, with no small regret, the house silver still on the table. Matteo rose and came around the table to pull out her chair for her—a proper courtesy for a jordain to show a lady wizard. A shudder went through Tzigone at the thought

  “What is wrong?” he asked softly.

  “Lady,” she muttered. “Wizard.”

  Matteo did not require an explanation—he knew how uneasy Tzigone was with the role she’d taken on. “Patron,” he countered, bowing to her with a pantomimed expression of abject horror.

  They burst out laughing, drawing stares from the more sedate diners. Chuckling still, they left the cool luxury of the inn for the glare of the street.

  Tzigone suddenly remembered something. She stopped dead and seized his arm. “We forgot to pay! Run!”

  He looked incredulously at her for a moment, then let out a whoop of incomprehensible laughter. Tzigone folded her arms and glared as she waited for his mirth to subside.

  Matteo wiped a tear from one eye and reached down to touch his jordain medallion. A familiar pedantic expression settled over his face, but the rumble of an approaching ice wagon drowned out the ensuing lecture.

  As the wagon pulled level with them, the heavy canvas curtain at the rear jerked open. Two men leaned out and seized Tzigone, jerking her up into the covered cart

  The attack was sudden, and completely unexpected. One moment Matteo was preparing to explain to Tzigone that jordaini seldom handled money, on the theory that they were less likely to be corrupted by its lure. Of course, the same reasoning kept the jordaini from forming close friendships, for fear that these might cloud their judgment and shape their counsel.

  For one heart-stopping instant, Matteo understood how this could be so. The only thing that mattered to him at this moment was the small, fiercely struggling girl and the two thugs who laid hands on her. He kicked into a run.

  The curtain twitched aside to reveal a leering, bearded face. A third man, big and hairy as one of the northland’s barbarians, hurled a pale blue robe—identical to the one Tzigone wore—into the street Though all this happened within the span of two heartbeats, Matteo noted that the robe was soaked with ominous red.

  The message was clear.

  Matteo ran full out, wishing for the first time that he had some magic in him, some way to slow the ice wagon. As if to mock him, the driver shook the reins over the horses’ neck, and the cart leaped forward in a sudden spurt Desperate, Matteo put all his strength into a final, leaping lunge. He fell just short of the ice wagon, but his fingers closed on the dragging end of a rope meant to bind the rear canvas shut. Only faintly aware of his passage over bruising cobblestone, Matteo hauled himself hand over hand up the rope and onto the cart. He found a toehold on the back axle and hung on as the ice wagon careened through the streets.

  As they thundered along, children pointed at him and passersby smirked, but no one raised an alarm. The cart moved fast, but not more so than was custom in a land so hot that ice disappeared quicker than a wizard’s fireball.

  Matteo took a calming breath and began to plan the battle ahead. There were at least four men—the two who snatched Tzigone, the leering thug, and the driver. The cart was a good size, though, and there could be many more inside. And Tzigone was alone with them.

  He tried not to dwell on this. Every instinct prompted him to fight his way to his friend’s side. Logic and training prevailed. He had no possibility of making a surprise attack, and he could not expect the thugs to stand patiently by as he hauled himself up into the ice wagon. His best chance of aiding Tzigone was to wait until the cart reached its destination. Paradoxically, the bloody robe gave him hope that she would be unharmed. Her abduction w
as meant as a warning and perhaps a lure.

  Very well, he would give them opportunity to deliver that message directly, and sooner than expected. With a grim smile, Matteo vowed to make the coming “conversation” as interesting as possible.

  Finally he saw the huge bulk of an icehouse up ahead. The cart veered around the small streets that surrounded the vast building and approached the rear. Wide, double doors swung open to admit them, then slammed shut behind. The ice wagon slowed, and the rumble died into silence.

  Matteo dropped quietly to the ground and swept the icehouse with a quick measuring gaze. Everything seemed to be in good order. The metal hooks and tools were free of rust. Fresh straw had been strewn on the packed dirt floor, and the high beams were free of cobwebs. The spells that opened and closed the doors for the cart were obviously well maintained. In short, this was no long-deserted building. Yet no one was working, even though highsun had come and gone and the sunsleep hours past. Matteo also noticed that the walls were thick to keep the ice cool and, not coincidentally, to muffle sound.

  The momentary silence exploded into a fury of thuds and curses—most of the latter coming from Tzigone, though a few muffled and pained exclamations from her captors suggested that she was making a good accounting for herself. Tzigone’s voice abruptly dwindled to a furious mumbling. The cart’s back gate fell open with a crash, and three men stumbled out from behind the curtain and down the ramp, carrying their uncooperative captive. They’d managed to stuff a rag into her mouth and bind it with a gag. She writhed and kicked and, presumably, swore, but to no avail. The men pinioned her so that her hands were stilled, leaving no chance that she might cast a spell.

  Another man followed them—a wizard holding a long wand in one hand. When he saw Matteo, he quickly touched the wand to each of the three men. Matteo noted the soft click as the wand touched the men, as if the wizard were tapping against granite.

  Stoneskin, he thought grimly. These men had expected him to follow, and they were well prepared. Quickly he calculated his chances against fighters wearing this magical protection. Four men against one was challenge enough—five men, if he counted the man climbing down from the driver’s seat. Now he would have to strike several solid blows on each man to dispel the stoneskin charm, and figure in the permutations presented by four such opponents.